Blacklist

by Jerry Ludwig

  “The Atherton thing? What’s that got to do with a parking ticket?”

  “Maybe nothing, but—it could be more than one ticket, could be several. All in the San Diego area during the week of November fifteenth, 1945. Do they keep records from back that far?”

  I hold through a long wait. “Sarge, you still there?”

  “Yeah. Those records are still available. ’Cuz there was so much money attached to parking fines, the Department’s been real careful to keep track. You want me to have somebody look that up?”

  “Yeah, if you could, if that’s not asking too much, I’d really appreciate it, I—”

  “Then you better give me a name, huh?”

  I take a deep breath. Maybe this talking with Teddy was all nonsense. Just a lot of imagining on my part. But if you’re going to try to knock a king off his throne, you have to start somewhere. “Rains,” I say. “Harry Rains.”

  CHAPTER

  48

  DAVID

  Now I see Jana in the dim lighting of the underground parking garage. I was banking that today of all days she would keep her shrink appointment. I step out from behind a car and she rushes into my arms. God, that feels good.

  “You’ve been crying,” I say to her.

  “So have you.” She touches my damp cheek.

  “Just heard on the radio driving over here. Zacharias is dead—killed himself.”

  “Oh, Jeez. Why?”

  “To save me—left a note, taking blame for everything—only now the cops think we did it together.”

  “When is this craziness ever going to end?”

  “Maybe today,” I say, “today could be the day.”

  She hugs me tight and I wince. “You’re hurt,” she says. “What happened?”

  “Let’s get out of here and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  * * *

  Jana crouches out of sight in the passenger seat beside me as we drive out. I had figured that even if she was followed, my repainted and replated jalopy would pass for just another patient’s car. Looks like it worked. I go around a few street corners, and no one is on my tail.

  “I had to take the chance,” I tell her. “Had to see you.”

  We drive over to Roxbury Park on Olympic Boulevard, a grassy, tranquil place in the lower-rent district of Beverly Hills. I used to play shortstop on a Little League team here. Saturday mornings Jana would be in the bleachers with my mom cheering me. Feels like a million years ago.

  We park in a secluded corner of the lot. After we talk about Leo’s awful death, I fill her in about what’s been happening to me. She looks so scared as she listens. Then even more scared as she tells me about McKenna’s visit.

  “He just won’t stop, David.”

  I don’t want to deal with that. Maybe later, but not now. So I hug her close until she stops shaking, then tell her I have a couple of ideas. “Are you up for hearing?”

  She backhands away tears and nods, and I tell her how I added it up on the pier and why it seems to come out Harry Rains.

  “But why would he kill the snitches?” she asks incredulously. “Harry wasn’t Blacklisted, he was the industry’s go-between. Talking his clients into cooperating.”

  “That’s the curve ball,” I say. “Suppose it all has nothing to do with the Blacklist. Suppose Harry had his own reason—to get Joe Shannon off his back. I think it’s all connected to Axel Atherton.”

  And I tell her how Harry once mentioned to me that when he thought he had failed the bar exam, he despondently went looking for fun down in San Diego. Where his childhood pal, Joe Shannon, was stationed. Along with Axel Atherton. “I think Harry must have got into a hassle with Axel and killed him. Shannon helped cover it up—but Shannon was blackmailing Harry ever since.”

  Jana stares at me. Trying to digest it. I give her a little more. “Probably it’s not the only time Shannon’s been involved in blackmail. Valerie told me that Harry had to pay off someone on the Committee to quash a subpoena for her—and Shannon brokered the deal.” Then I shift gears and hit her with another idea I’ve come up with.

  “Tell me about the book Joe Shannon sold to the studio,” I say.

  “Well, the word is Panorama paid Shannon a small fortune for it.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “Only coverage. Very brief. About five pages. I was curious, so I asked for the manuscript. Markie told me nobody could see it now. Being kept under wraps because of its unusual style and structure.”

  “So who has seen it?”

  “Hardly anyone, I guess. It’s unusual. Basically we bought it based on the insistence and enthusiasm of”—she hears herself—“Harry Rains.”

  I jump on that. “So it would fit. Harry found a way to make another payoff to Shannon, out of Panorama’s pocket. And you mentioned talk about getting Gene Kelly to star. Maybe Shannon was pushing Harry to put the picture into production before he leaves to be Ambassador to Britain. And who knows if that would’ve been the last of it. Harry must have felt he would be on the hook forever.”

  Jana thinks for a long moment, then says, “Is this for real, David, or are we just wishing it into place?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know.”

  “You have no proof—you can’t be sure that Harry was even in San Diego the weekend when Atherton was killed.”

  I glance at my watch. It’s been a few hours. Maybe time enough. “Well, let’s see if at least that much checks out.”

  * * *

  We go to a pay phone on the wall outside a Roxbury drugstore. I dial the number I’ve memorized. After all, my whole life feels as if it depends on it.

  “Sarge,” I say, “it’s Phil from Hollywood. Don’t know if it’s too soon, but I wondered if you’d had a chance to check on that thing?”

  “Yeah, matter of fact, I did.”

  I’m tilting the ear piece away from my head so Jana also can hear.

  “This guy Harry Rains, whoever the hell he is, got four parking tickets over that weekend, one of them downtown. Not far, incidentally, from the bar where Atherton was last seen.” Then: “Want to tell me what it’s all about?”

  “Just—research,” I manage to mumble.

  “Well, make of it what you will. I’m not a cop anymore, so I don’t need answers, David. Give my condolences to Jana.”

  Jana stiffens beside me and I go numb.

  “We have newspapers in San Diego, too,” Sarge says.

  “Then why’d you help me?” I ask slowly.

  “’Cuz you got me wondering—why someone being tracked by the LA. fuzz would be spending time chasing down details about an ancient murder instead of running far and fast.” Then Sarge adds, “Besides, us cops down here have never gotten on particularly well with the L.A. bulls, they always treat us like we’re hayseeds. Good luck, kid.”

  He hangs up before I can thank him. Jana and I stand there.

  “Okay,” she says. “Now we know Harry was down there that weekend, probably visiting his old pal from the neighborhood, Joe Shannon, but it still doesn’t prove anything.”

  I say, “I’ve got some ideas on what to do next.” She listens eagerly until I add, “That’s why I had to see you. It can’t work without your help”—a shadow of fear crosses her face—“and it’s kind of risky for you.”

  She looks into my eyes. “What do you want me to do?”

  CHAPTER

  49

  JANA

  The veteran security cop at Panorama’s front entrance, who has known me forever, says, “Sorry for your loss, Jana,” as he presses the button lifting the barrier.

  I left David twenty minutes ago and drove straight here to begin my part. It’s the first time I’ve been to the office since my father died. Was that only last night?

  My parking space is waiting for me in front of Research. Getting a parking slot on the main lot, rather than in the boondocks, is a perk that doesn’t come with my lowly job. But as Leo’s daughter, I rated it. Now that he’s gone, I wonder how
long I’ll get to keep it. Then I realize with a shock that I’m thinking of trivial things to distract myself from the horrendous matters at hand. Okay, I tell myself, whatever gets you through.

  As I walk toward the entrance to my building, I notice a couple of studio workers strolling up the street. They seem to slow and stare at me as if they know: her father was murdered. I climb the stairs and make my way to my small office, my desk, my tiny island of continuity, my safe haven. But not anymore.

  I sit down, take a slip of paper out of my pocket and place it squarely in the center of my desk blotter. It’s the number of the pay phone where David is waiting. Then I swivel my chair to face the window. Usually when I’m working, hours can go by without my looking out. But today is different. I’ve got a full view of the imposing white three-floors-high executive building. The #1 parking slot in front is empty. No Rolls-Royce. So Harry Rains is not in his office.

  I settle down with a research report about the siege at Khartoum in my lap and a red pencil in my hand and pretend to read, but my gaze is out the window.

  Time passes. So slowly. I try to keep my mind a blank. But it’s as if there are savage warriors pounding on my fortress walls trying to get in. I somehow force myself to ignore them. The smoggy violet sun is starting to set over the Panorama lot, but it’s still a fireball.

  I’m jarred back to the task at hand by the sight of the Rolls-Royce pulling in. Now I see Harry Rains get out and enter the executive building.

  I reach for the phone and dial the number written on the slip of paper on the desk. David answers the pay phone on the first ring.

  “He just came back,” I say.

  “Here we go,” he says.

  I hang up. My hand is shaking. I can’t breathe.

  CHAPTER

  50

  DAVID

  After receiving Jana’s call, I wait a few minutes for Harry Rains to reach his office. Then I dial the studio and ask to be connected. His perky young secretary answers and wants to know who’s calling.

  “Tell him it’s Teddy’s boy.”

  “Teddy’s boy?” It means nothing to her.

  “He’s expecting my call. Very urgent.”

  “Hold on, please,” she says dubiously.

  She goes off the line. Then Harry Rains is in my ear. Hushed and surprised. “David?”

  Tone is going to be everything. I have to hit just the right tone or this won’t work.

  “Harry, I’m so scared.” I don’t have to be a great method actor to deliver that line.

  “Where are you?”

  “Some gas station on the west side, I don’t know, it’s—Harry what am I gonna do? Everybody’s after me! You gotta help me.”

  “Take it easy, kid. What can I do?”

  “Can you bring me some money so I can get away from—”

  “They’ll find you, David, no matter where you go.”

  “Then what should I do? Tell me! You’re a lawyer and—you’re my friend and—”

  “Of course I am. No matter what.”

  “I didn’t do any of those things!”

  “Then that’s what we’re going to convince them of. You’ve got to give yourself up. We’ll get you the best defense team in the country and—”

  “They’ll kill me first, the cops, they think I’m a mad murderer, they’ll shoot me on sight, even before I can say a word!”

  “Be cool, David, there is a way—I could meet you somewhere. Bring you in. They won’t hurt you if I’m with you.”

  I’m agog. I can’t believe this is happening. I got him to say the words I wanted to hear. Now it’s my turn to make suggestions. I propose a time and a meeting place. He says he’ll be there. Provide safekeeping while he surrenders me to the cops, then he’ll have one of Hollywood’s top criminal lawyers waiting at the station to meet us, it’s going to be fine.

  “But you’ll come to me alone, right?”

  He promises me that he will. I hang up. Sweat is dripping down my face. I guess my tone was perfect. But so was his. Two bullshitters convincing each other. God, I hope so.

  Okay, the way I calculate it there are now two possibilities: Harry will call the cops and meet me with them hiding around the corner ready to pounce; or he’ll come alone without telling anyone and try to kill me thereby closing the case forever. No more questions asked. The bizarre thing is, I’m counting on the second possibility.

  CHAPTER

  51

  JANA

  I’m still at my desk looking out the window when Harry Rains hurries out and takes off in his Rolls-Royce.

  So far, so good. I think.

  Now it’s time for me to go. The toughest assignment is still ahead and I’m trembling. I take a deep breath, steeling myself. Ready to go. But as I swivel away from the window, I’m looking at Barney Ott in the narrow opening to my office.

  “Hey, Jana,” he says. “I heard you were on the lot.” The man hears everything. He advances to my desk. “Wanted to come by and tell you how terrible we all feel about Leo. He was a great man and a great filmmaker.”

  He says it with enormous sincerity. As if he’s on stage at the Oscars about to present Leo with the Thalberg Award.

  “Thanks, Barney,” I mumble. Not able to meet his probing gaze. “Appreciate that.” I rise, but Ott doesn’t move, so I can’t leave.

  “Got a minute for an old friend?” He takes the chair in front of my desk and gestures me down.

  “’scuse me if I’m a bit presumptuous,” he begins, “but with Leo gone, I feel like a Dutch uncle to you. I mean your father’s not here to give you guidance at this point, and he was a good friend of mine, so I feel it’s my responsibility to mention a couple things.”

  I’m checking the clock on the bookcase. Whatever advice he’s about to deliver, I want him to hurry it up. So I nod.

  “First thing is, I know how you feel about David Weaver. I respect that. It’s something real special. Wish I could have had something like that in my life”—he grimaces wryly—“but that’s another story.”

  Lord, is he about to tell me the soap opera of his life? Get on with it!

  “But you have to face reality, Jana. The Titanic sank, you’re in the lifeboat. And there’s no room for David, that’s the plain fact. If you try to save him, you’ll both be lost. David has to go down, for what he did to your dad and Joe Shannon, and for the good of the town! A town that’s been real good to you. Right now you have everybody’s sympathy, you don’t want to turn that to hate. Depending on what you do or don’t do now, you could get locked up—if you aid a fugitive from justice. And at the very least, you’ll be banished from this town.”

  I expect him to ask me if I know where David is. But he rises.

  “That’s all I wanted to say. I know you’ll do the smart thing. You got a good future ahead. We’ll always look out for you.”

  The man does know a good exit line. He leaves. I’m still frozen, until I hear his footsteps clumping down the stairs. Then I race down the hall, check the staircase—through the glass door below I can see the street. Nothing out of the ordinary. Coast is clear. I scoot down, push open the door and I’m outside—when I see Ott up the street leaning over the open driver’s window of a green Lincoln. Talking to Jack Heritage.

  For an instant my eyes meet Barney’s, then he turns away to continue chatting with his henchman. Making believe he’s not aware of me, but through the windshield Jack Heritage is watching me.

  I feel blocked. I can’t get into my car and drive off. Not with them following me. Got to lose them first. So I walk briskly away. Past my parking space. Don’t know where I’m going. Just intent on seeing whether they’re tailing me. I glance back. The Lincoln, both of them in the front seat, is creeping after me.

  So I keep on walking. Frantically trying to think of a way to shake them off. I stop at a kiosk covered with flyer announcements of studio activities, touch one as if I’m reading it, dart another glance back. The car has stopped, waiting for me to go on.
So I do. Down past dressing room row, the cozy apartments for the top stars at Panorama. Small nameplates on the front door of each. I see one that says MR. HESTON. He knows me. I can go in the front door, run through and out the rear door onto another street. I grab the front door handle and—it’s locked. Of course, his director was killed last night, so they’re not shooting today.

  I turn back to the street. The Lincoln is gone. I breathe easier and start back for my car and then, up ahead, the hood of the Lincoln noses out from around a corner. Enough so we all see each other. Like a game of cat and mouse. I pivot and hurry off. I come to a heavy door on the wall of the soundstage I’m passing. I yank at it. That’s locked, too.

  Now I’m into the back lot, on the rows of phony movie streets. The Western street, where my father was lynched. Behind me I see the Lincoln stop and they both get out. They’re following me on foot now. Go faster! Here’s the machine shop where the sets are constructed. The carpenters are hard at work and don’t pay me any attention. Toss another look and see Ott and Heritage picking up speed, I’ve walked into a dead end—and then I see the answer right there in front of me.

  A leftover from when David and I as children romped over every inch of the studio. Back in the rear of the machine shop there’s a narrow space between the closely stacked walls of old sets. Our secret passage! Dark and mysterious. Perfect. I slip inside and move forward. I can hear running steps, so I plunge around a bend in the path, if you can call it a path, it’s really just a meager space left when they leaned all these tall flats together. I hear voices behind me. I stop. Totally still. Listening.

  “Where’d the little bitch go?” I hear Jack Heritage say.

  “Gotta be around here somewhere,” Barney Ott says. “Let’s keep looking.”

  So I can’t go back. Have to go forward. In the darkness, just a glimmer of sunlight filters down from between the tops of the giant walls. It’s like groping blindfolded through a maze made of rotting wood with occasional nails jutting out. They are tearing at my clothes and scratching my out-thrust hands. Knowing that the passage comes out two studio streets over is what keeps me going, but I imagine that the walls are getting closer and closer. The space between the stacks seem to be getting narrower, then I realize maybe it’s not that the sets have slumped together. It’s me, I’m bigger now, no longer the small child I was the last time I came this way. I suddenly feel nauseous and recognize the symptoms: my claustrophobic response. Cold sweat. Shaking. I want to go back to where it was wider, but there isn’t even room to turn around, so I have to keep moving ahead. For David to have any chance I have to make it through this, but what if it gets even narrower and I’m stuck in here and even if I scream, who can hear me? My escape route could turn into my tomb. I’ll have failed David, it’s all over and—then there’s daylight ahead. I have to crouch and scrunch sideways like a scuttling creature and force myself through the last few yards but then I’m outside again. In a deserted outdoor storage area. Old rusting vehicles and a motley assortment of discarded props. Ott and Heritage probably don’t even know this area exists.